


Trust

by Emma_Trevelyan



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Massage, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Post Alone, Post Questioning Beliefs, Romance, TW: Reference to past abuse, TW: Reference to past slavery, Trust, blindfold
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-08
Updated: 2016-01-08
Packaged: 2018-05-12 13:45:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5668192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emma_Trevelyan/pseuds/Emma_Trevelyan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ana Hawke and Fenris work on trust in the bedroom</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trust

“Fenris, are you sure?”

“Hawke, I never would have agreed if I wasn’t,” Fenris sighed, carding his hands through her scarlet hair. It had gotten _so long_ since their first night together, when it was barely long enough to hold. Now, it brushed the middle of her back in soft, feminine waves. She stared at him with those pretty grey eyes, and he knew she was the only person he’d trust with this.

“Alright,” she sighed, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. He leaned into the caress, sighed when she brushed his hair back behind his ear. “If you need me to, just say the word, OK?”

“I trust you, Hawke,” he purred, his voice low with desire and anticipation.

She pressed him into her mountain of fluffy pillows, thick with the same spice-and-citrus scent she used to perfume her hair, which helped. She had a pale blue scarf in her hands, so flimsy he was sure he could tear it as easily as paper. He felt his pulse jump when she leaned forward, her soft curves silhouetted by her thin robe catching the fire light. One of his hands jumped forward, palming the soft mound of her breast, reveling still at the feel, the give, the weight… She was so beautiful, and the way she looked at him. It was like he was someone worth aching for, like he was as treasured and cherished as her. It twisted up his insides, but in a pleasant way.

“Ready?” she was right next to his ear, her breath ghosting over the sensitive shell. He drew in a sharp gasp when she tossed her leg over his hip, straddling him, pressing her heat against his steadily-growing erection.

“Yes,” he growled, tracing his finger up the curve of her spine.

He felt the silky fabric skim over his skin before it pressed over his eyes. She tied it firmly, but not tightly, effectively blocking out everything. He felt his heart speed, bruising against his ribs as the familiar panic set in.

_You can’t see! Run! Fight!_

“Fenris?”

Her soft voice was an anchor, a tether to the here and now. Her hands were everywhere, soothing, touching where he loved to be touched. She was checking in, making sure he was OK, as they’d agreed. She moved her hands to his hair, her fingers hovering over the loose knot.

“I’m OK,” he assured, gripping her hips. He loved feeling her skin against his, tracing over old scars on otherwise creamy skin. “Keep going.”

“Just say the word,” she sighed, pressing an open mouthed kiss to his forehead. “And I stop.”

“I know, Hawke,” he replied sardonically. He skimmed his knuckles down the side of her neck to take the sting out of his tone. “You can keep going.”

She started with his hair, pushing her hands through his, scratching her nails gently over his scalp. He would never admit it, but he loved it when she played with his hair. It was a weakness of his; it was something so foreign to him. So affectionate. She was pressing kisses to the trio of dots on his forehead. He always hated those, except when her tongue would dart out to caress them. He squirmed underneath her, and she responded by nuzzling his nose with hers. He could feel her breath on his lips, and he parted his mouth expectantly, but she pulled back coyly, a coquettish giggle surging through his system.

She started to trace his tattoos, down the line of his neck over his chest. She swept her tongue over the lines on his chin; her touch was soft, almost tentative. It was loving and warm and gentle; it made him feel treasured. He arched into her touch, every slight movement setting him on high alert. He felt hyper sensitive; he felt every shift of her weight, every slight pass of her hand. He heard ever sharp intake of breath as he moved beneath her.

“I love the way you look, Fenris,” she purred. She skimmed the pad of her thumb across the hem of the blindfold, settling her hand around his jaw. He tilted his face towards her expectantly, and she obliged him with a deep kiss. “You’re so handsome; I love your skin, and your voice just does things to me, Fenris.”

She peppered the juncture of his neck and shoulder with kisses, continuing to trace the lines of his tattoos; she palmed the line of his Adonis belt, running a thumb under the harsh line and he let out a harsh, disturbingly feminine giggle at the ticklish touch. His hands flew to his mouth in horror.

_Did that sound come out of ME?_

She let out a little breathless laugh and pressed a kiss to the area, shifting on the bed to reach his legs. She purposefully avoided the juncture of his thighs, no matter how desperately he craved her touch there. But the feel of her lips on his hip, her hands running firmly down his legs, caressing the back of his knee, was too good to stop. His breath came in desperate, low pants as she squirmed up his body one more time, worshiping the lean line of his waist.

She applied slight pressure to his side; “Turn over?”

She worded it like a question—she was giving him the option of saying no, but he was putty in her hands. He flopped onto his front, reaching between him and the sheets to adjust, and waiting. The anticipation was almost better than the touch; he could hear her rummaging in her nightstand and feel the warm press of her thigh against his but he still reached for her.

“Ana?” he whimpered, palming along the bed.

Her fingers interlaced with his, pulling his knuckles up to her lips; “I’m here, Fenris. Just getting this.”

She held something in front of him, and he could smell it instantly—vanilla and cloves, the massage oil they’d picked out together when she’d suggested this sort of play.

“Is this OK?”

“Yes,” his voice was a harsh, heated whisper.

She pressed a kiss to his ear, sending a jolt through his limbs straight to his groin. The smell of the oil intensified when she drizzled some in her palm, warming it between her hands. When she pressed firm hands into the small of his back, working in smooth circles with her thumbs just like he showed her, he let out a long, low moan into the pillows. She whispered soft, affectionate encouragements—they were never about his appearance. She knew how he was about that. She never called him beautiful, or good, or responsive. She’d made those mistakes in the past, and he’d gently guided her away. She usually said how much she loved him, how much she wanted him, asking him if he enjoyed her touch. She also checked with him, making sure he was OK.

He felt a lump in his throat develop at the gentle care she took with him. She would alternate between firm strokes that worked deep into tired muscles and soft, reassuring caresses that made even the slightest bit of distance between their bodies seem too much. He was writhing underneath her, trying to entice her to touch him _anywhere_.

“Please, Hawke,” he whimpered, fisting the sheets and digging his fingers into her mattress.

She stopped then, and for a terrifying second, he feared having said the wrong thing. But the way she formed her body against his (when had she taken off her robe?) and the way she laced her fingers with his… he sighed softly, turning into a puddle of goo, when she placed an open-mouthed kiss on the special place on the back of his neck. He shivered under her touch, greedily breathing her scent off her pillows. She massaged her fingers through his hair, fingering the knot on the scarf over his eyes. He’d almost forgotten it was there.

“I’m going to take this off,” she said frankly, though she let her lips linger on the tip of his ear, which was just enchanting. “Then we’re going to calm down for ten whole minutes. If you still want to, we’ll make love.”

She put her hands over his eyes, sliding the scarf out from between them. She parted her fingers by degrees; he could feel his lashes brush her palm and his hands reached out for her, wrapping around her waist. Slowly, he readjusted to the light and she was smiling up at him. He hovered over her, nuzzling the tip of his nose against hers.

“Why do you want me to wait?” he asked softly, cupping his hand around the curve of her jaw.

“That was intense, Fenris,” she said frankly, kissing his palm and curling into his chest. “This wasn’t about sex, it was about intimacy. About you and I learning to trust each other. We can absolutely have sex, but I want to wait for a bit. Let you come down a touch.”

He knew the words. He knew what they meant, he _could_ say them. He wanted to--to this perfect woman who’d scooped the broken, jagged pieces of the man he was and turned him into a person again. Something stopped him, though. Something wicked that played with his darkest anxieties about her.

So he waited; he would in time. For now, he would do what he did best—he’d let his actions speak for him. He’d let words that weren't _quite_ the ones he wanted to say, but close enough. She knew, though. Instead of declarations of eternal love, he pressed their foreheads together, lacing their fingers so they shared the same air. He let his lips brush over her cheeks, her nose, her eyelids, her temple. He brushed his hand through her silky hair and pulled her into his chest, holding her close, aching for contact.

He bowed around her and whispered in her ear; “I trust you, Ana.”

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [this](http://solomon-volfovich.tumblr.com/post/132731084440/4) beautiful Fenris piece... reblog it and tell the artist how much you love it.


End file.
